


All the Prettiest of Lights

by Opaul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1920's, AU, F/M, Jazz era, Stydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:45:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opaul/pseuds/Opaul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920's AU with lots of jazz and dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Prettiest of Lights

_**1920's New York**_ She only comes to the club at Kira's insistence. Kira is headlining this Thursday, which is a big deal apparently. So arriving at a quarter past eight she picks a tiny table right down front. The first thing she notices is the opening act is far too loud. A tall dark handsome man plays a fast paced jazzy tune on sax with far too much vigor. His accompanist on piano can barely keep up with the crazy G minor scales he keeps on throwing out. But he everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves completely oblivious that their saxophonist was self taught. _Honestly_ , what had she been expecting? Speaks, even a 5 star one such as this, were hardly places to find top notch performers. Lydia winces as the saxophonists hits another screeching high note followed by a descending minor scale. Being classically trained in music since she could walk, she has always had a very fine ear for music. Those minor thirds he keeps hitting are going to be the death of her. She tips the rest of her glass back in a very un-lady like fashion. The alcohol makes the noise more bearable.

She runs her fingers over the rim. The dim lights glow in the thin bit of glass as the candle light flickers in the wine’s reflection. Pretty lights always have a way of invoking painful nostalgia in her. She sighs. Jackson never understood good music. The first time saw _him_ it was as the lights glowed on stage. She had already downed two glasses of peach schnapps and was nursing a third. Lydia swears that's the only reason she became smitten so fast. Good alcohol had that effect on her. It's a sickness she inherited from her mother. She decided the second he spoke into the microphone that she would be taking him home. The rest of said mess--was history--one she'd rather not remember at the moment. She takes another sip of wine and tries not to recall the look of his back as he waltzed out of their, her apartment for the final time. She refills her glass with red wine and decides that, no, she will not be reliving that riveting little bit of heartbreak tonight. She is lighting her third cigarette of the evening when the saxophone decrescendos off a C minor and lets the pianist begins to fill up the silence. Lydia sets down the wine glass, forgotten. The performance takes on a slower tempo as he lets the notes run together languidly. The melody becomes warmer, more loving, developing those lovely tones that are, in her eyes, one of the few saving graces of jazz. Her eyes follow the spotlight as it lands on the man in question. He plays with such relaxed, nearly sloppy, demeanor its a wonder he can play with such skill. Lydia scoffs leaning her chin in her hand. Perhaps it was the wine, but looks oh so handsome up on stage with the sleeves of his button up rolled up as his hands glided over the keys. _Pianists are always good with their hands_ , she ponders taking a tip of wine.

* * *

 

 “Do you really think this little ruse of ours will work?” Kira says peering through the curtains. She spots her friend front and center at a table by herself. Scott glances over his shoulder at Stiles who is helping set up equipment.

“It better. At this rate it’s going to be ten years before Stiles works of the nerve to ask her to dance.”

“Lydia’s still refusing to put herself out there.” Scott’s nods knowingly.

“Do you think they’ll like each other?” Kira asks uncertainly. Scott cracks a smile. Personality is the one factor they have going for them. “Have you met them?”

* * *

"So how was it?" Kira says a bashful smile plastered across her face as she sits down in the vacant seat across from her.

"Fantastic as always. Honestly do you really even need to ask with applause like that." Kira dips her head. "It's just been a long road, you know?" She says in a more somber demeanor. Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but the words are overshadowed by the man who had been playing saxophone for them all evening plopping into the chair next to her.

"Good show tonight," he says with earnest swelling in his big brown eyes. Kira smile immediately brightens.

“Thanks.” They then proceed to stare into each other’s eyes for a long enough amount of time to earn an eye roll from Lydia. Seriously, she’s right here. She clears her throat loudly. Both blush wildly. “Lydia this is Scott, Scott Lydia.”

Lydia smiles pleasantly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.

” “Same here,” he says offering his hand across the table. It’s becoming abundantly clear that this boy’s enthusiasm never waivers. He grins with all the warmth of an 8 week old golden retriever puppy. His warmth immediately makes her feel guilty for being so critical of his playing even if it was strictly internal. “Kira, has told me all about you.”

“All good I hope.” “Yeah, she says you’re a _cellist_ , well my friend Stiles,” He says the shit eating grin on his face growing a mile wide as he claps his friend on the back,“...Is a _pianist._ ” Lydia immediately raises an eyebrow. Kira inwardly slaps herself. She had forgotten Scott’s inability to be subtle about certain things. “And they both have _strings_ in them and--” Scott is saved from further embarrassment by Kira who whisks him off (rather forcefully) onto the dance floor. 

* * *

Lydia does not even attempt to remain straight faced. Perhaps its all that wine, but she can help but grin wildly.

 

“Well that’s Scott for you,” Stiles says scratching the back of his neck. “And Kira,” She echoes.

“Stiles Stilinski by the way.” “Lydia Martin.” He glances over at the couples dancing and then back at her. She cannot fathom why (perhaps because love is an act of insanity), but the anxious look on his face makes her feel all giddy, like she’s back in prep school and all the boys from St. Francis have come to practice ballroom dancing. She immediately regains her composure as he turns his head around.

“Would you like to dance--with me?”

“I suppose.” She replies with feigned nonchalance. He holds out a hand and she takes it happily. If Kira was going to set her up at least she had good taste. They dance so fast that her feet can barely keep up and soon she is breathless. Her hair is messy, and her palms sweaty. _He is too_ , she notes, _good._ She doesn't want straight lines, or perfect circles. She wants brilliant bursts of light where all the atoms crash together. She wants the way his arms swing wildly and his hands grip tightly to her waist. She wants too hurried steps and laughing smiles. For what he lacks in grace he makes up for in sheer enthusiasm. It’s actually refreshing to be with someone who is more concerned with having fun, than looking the part. They drink sweet champagne all night long and dance to the blaring jazz ensemble until their aching limbs refuse to allow them to continue.

* * *

 Lydia awoke in silk sheets to the smell of cigar smoke and the sound of a piano playing. The lengths of green fabric were entangled around her legs from the night before, but someone had bothered to cover her up in a downy comforter. Least this boy had some sort of manners, even if he did leave her alone in an empty bed. She rolled over and buries her head deeper into the small nest of blankets and pillows. They smell vaguely of lemon soap and cologne. Those being the very same scents she remembered from the night before when she had drank champagne off his lips and waltzed to a saxophone's hum round a darkened speak. Part of her wants nothing more than to drift back off to sleep in this handsome strangers bed. Her legs are sore from dancing and other activities. But the intrepid noise of sporadic piano playing keeps interrupting her beauty sleep. Rolling on her to her back she stares up at the green fabric of the canopy lazily. She supposes airily that this is her recompense for letting a musician take her home.

Smirking at her own handy work she rolls over and examines the clock on the bedside table. The hour hand is poised well past the three. Music plays steadily from the other room, the melody is soft and slow, peaceful like birdsong. She supposes she should go see what this man she has snared is up too. Perhaps she can even convince him to dance with her again.

* * *

**1936 New York**

They dance much slower now, to a softer beat, as The Boswell Sisters sing _Blue Moon_ on a static filled station. They turn the music up loud enough to drown out the sound of the street below, loud enough to deafen the neighbors’ clatter. The radio is a rusted old thing Stiles fished out of a dumpster. In another life she would have never allowed such an unseemly object into her house, much less on her kitchen counter tops. But in this one she is merely thankful for the music. Thankful to have the energy to dance, to have a loved one to dance with. Newly calloused fingers now brush his fingertips under her shirt against the skin of her back. Playing the cello had once given her fingertips them as well. Now the skin of her feet and palms thickened to bare the weight. His shoulders have broadened and back muscles tightened to do much the same. Stiles nestles his face into the crook between her neck and her shoulder where her collar droops revealing bare skin. His lips against her pressing warmth into chilly skin. The pleasant side effect of second hand clothes that are much too big for her. She slides her hand on his shoulder around him tugging him to her.

It’s steady, and it's slowed, and it's aching. But she would rather be here in his arms than in all the fancy dance halls the world over. No amount of sweet champagne or sparkling lights could alter that.


End file.
